Thief Of Souls

“You may have,” said Michael, “but now you’re here.”

“What happened?”

“I killed you,” Michael said. “And Dillon brought you back.”

There was a pause, as Drew tried to process that bit of information. Finally, Michael said, “Dinner’s at seven. Come on down if you’re hungry.” And he left Drew alone in the eight-sided room, with the faces of more than a dozen statues staring at him, as if waiting to see what he was going to do now.

11. Life In The Key Of D

“Last year, after you all left,” Dillon began, “I found that I could repair as well as I could ruin, and the more I fixed, the better I got.”

The Billiard Room, like most of the rooms in the castle, had a stone yawn of a fireplace, and walls cov­ered in medieval tapestries. Dillon didn’t have much use for the room, but it was less intimidating than the vaulted expanse of the Assembly Room, which was far too imposing a place to speak of imposing things.

“Death isn’t an easy thing to reverse,” Dillon ex­plained, “but I’ve had practice.” He didn’t tell them how much practice it had taken. How, at first, he would have to hold corpses in his arms for hours, until the decay gave way to living flesh once more, and their spirits were coaxed back into being. Those were mem­ories better left unshared.

Michael tried to play a game of pool, but his hands shook so much that he missed the cue ball. “Do you need a license to raise the dead, or is that just for cars and guns?”

Winston stood at the far end of the room. Although he had gotten taller, he was dwarfed by the statues on either side. “So now you’re in the resurrection busi­ness?”

Dillon grimaced, his mind running to find a less loaded euphemism. “Let’s just say I charge people’s batteries.”

The thought brought a collective shiver to the room, which made Dillon angry. “Is it so different from what the rest of you have been doing?” He turned to Mi­chael. “I’ve been hearing about strange weather sys­tems in southern California. Is that where you’ve been, Michael?”

Michael hesitated before hitting the cue ball. “Yeah . . . so?”

Dillon turned to Tory. “The dropping crime rate in Miami keeps making national news. Somehow I don’t think it’s because of good police work,”

Tory looked away. “It’s just something that hap­pens,” she said. “It was never intentional.”

Dillon glanced at Winston and Lourdes, who both looked away, making it clear that they were guilty of some power play as well.

“You’ve all been out there,” said Dillon. “So don’t act like I’m any different from you.”

“What you do is . . . bigger,” Tory said.

Then a voice spoke out from the corner. “Yes—but let’s not be fearful of it. Isn’t that what you’re saying, Dillon?”

It was Okoya. Until now, Okoya had remained a dis­tant observer. In fact, Dillon had forgotten he was there. Okoya was the only one unfazed, reclining com­fortably in a plush lounge chair, as if he were William Randolph Hearst himself. He seemed to carry himself like someone born to royalty: such smooth, elegant composure. Dillon wanted to ask Okoya to leave, but Okoya seemed too much of an ally right now. Instead Dillon turned to the others.

“Okoya’s right. You can’t let it scare you. There’s enough people acting strangely around here—at least we could treat each other as if we were normal.”

Winston strode closer. “Don’t you think there’s a reason for them to act strangely? You bring back the dead, you take over a national landmark to play house, and you let all your followers think you’re God at six­teen—'

“What they think is their problem!” snapped Dillon.

“No, it’s yours,” Winston said.

“I don’t see a problem.”

It was Okoya again. They all turned to him, still reclining in the velvet lounge. His voice was quiet, but commanding. Dillon found himself completely up­staged.

“It’s human nature to find divinity in anything greater than oneself,” Okoya said. “If they see you as gods, what harm does that do? And besides, their de­votion can be used.”

“I don’t like it,” muttered Winston.

“Get used to it,” said Okoya. “I would say that your time of hiding is over.”

Lourdes sauntered closer to Okoya. “You’re pretty accepting of all of this. Aren’t you the least bit sur­prised, or shocked by what you’ve seen here today?”

Okoya pulled himself up from the lounge, to face them eye-to-eye. “Acceptance is the advantage of an open mind.”

“I’m not impressed by your fortune-cookie senti­ments, Okoya,” said Winston.

“All right, then. Maybe I’m so calm about it because I’ve always suspected I’d find myself in the shadow of greatness. And being here with all of you feels like coming home.”

Dillon pushed his way in front of the others. “And exactly where is home?”

“Hualapai Nation,” answered Okoya. “But you al­ready know that.”

“Somehow,” said Dillon, “I suspect you’re a much longer way from there than you’d care to let on.”

“I’ve traveled,” Okoya said. “And you’d be wise not to grill someone who comes to you in good faith. It’s the sign of a weak leader.”

The comment stung Dillon far more than he thought it would—and yet there was something refreshing in it: that after the constant acquiescence Of the Happy Campers, here was a personality that actually chal­lenged him. Dillon caught himself grinning, and Okoya returned it. It served to make the others uneasy.

“You still haven’t told us why you’ve dragged us into this nasty game,” Winston asked him. Dillon broke eye contact with Okoya, and turned back to the others.

“It’s got to be more than just trauma care,” said Tory.

“You’re right,” admitted Dillon, “there is more. I called to you . . . I gathered you back together, because it’s the only way to fix what’s gone wrong.”

Winston took a breath for a loud rebuttal, but his brain must have hooked around what Dillon had said. Winston hesitated for a moment, then spoke in a wor­ried whisper.

“What do you mean—‘gone wrong’?”

The other shards had moved closer now, pressing in around the billiard table. Dillon took a deep breath to calm himself.

“Five days ago, I swam the Columbia River,” he told them, “and from the moment I climbed out, I felt a shift in the patterns around me. . . . Patterns of the pres­ent . . . and the future. Suddenly I felt everyone and everything begin a long spiral toward a very dark place.”

“You never killed your parasite,” Tory reminded Dil­lon. “Maybe that’s what you sensed. Maybe that thing has found a way back into this world, and it’s starting to destroy again:” “No,” Dillon said. “No—if it came back, I’d know it. This is something different. Maybe something worse.”

“What could be worse than that?” asked Lourdes.

“All I know,” said Dillon, “is that the first domino is down. Freak events are going to start piling on top of each other, and then one day, people are going to wake up to find that there is no order anymore.”

“The apocalypse is supposed to have four horsemen,” grumbled Winston. “Not five.”

“We’re not ringing it in, Winston,” said Tory. “I think Dillon has a plan to prevent it. Is that what you’re saying, Dillon?”

“I think there’s a chance, if we’re all together.”

“But we’re not all together,” Winston reminded them.